Anatomy Of A New Season

There's an app that I use for 7 months a year. It's red, and lives exactly where my thumb lands when I unlock my screen.

From March to September, I instinctively open it every single time I use my phone. It's ritual. Unlock phone, open Footy Info, close Footy Info, open app I intended to use.

This week, muscle memory has kicked in. Nothing on the touchscreen has changed. The tiles are the same as they were in September. But there is something in the ether that guides my finger.

Perhaps it's the slight change in weather. We've had a bunch of rain the past few days.

Perhaps it's the mythical footy gods, reinfiltrating my home, my feeds, my podcasts. That's what I prefer to believe. It's not me, it's them.

I've spent 22 years working behind various bars. I didn't realise it at the time, but each of them had sporting connections. My first hospo job was in country Victoria, and the pub I landed in sponsored the local senior team.

I've worked in one of the largest hospitality complexes in the country, a beacon for post-match festivities that last long into the night. I worked at a Bridge Rd institution once owned by Ron Barassi, just a Malcolm Blight torp from the MCG.

It was an exciting place to work for a footy-head. Each week the hordes would descend, adorned in the colours of the clubs they'd chosen to ally, performing ritualistic pre and post game ceremonies.

The stained yellow walls seemed to expand on match days, heaving with anticipation and parmas. It smelled of fryer oil and cigarette smoke from the locals out behind the side door. But it wasn't off-putting. It just added to the atmosphere.

I was there for the draw in 2010, and mostly remember the joy of the then-manager, who couldn't believe his luck. Two Grand Finals. That was as good as it got for the bean count.

Then, for more than a decade, I inhabited The Birmy, a Fitzroy pub that had once been owned by legendary Lions captain Butch Gale.

It had long rejected it's footy pedigree. There was significant pushback from some parts of the neighbourhood when we hung televisions for the first time. It worked though, and over several seasons it grew into a fantastic sports venue.

For my part, I gently steered it into a Collingwood meeting ground, a hall where as many tears were spilt as ale. Covid related initiatives kicked off that relationship, but it was a willingness to get involved from the club itself that really moved the needle.

The partnership exploded in 2022, and then culminated in a premiership the following year, and the greatest day in my 13 years in the pub. If I try, I can still smell the cuvee running down my arms as I stood atop a table, leading 300 delirious Magpies in song. Equally, I can still hear the collective noise of bar stools scraping on wooden floor, signalling a silent exodus following a loss.

All these venues shared one thing in common. Footy. The weeks through February and March were spent signing customers up for tipping competitions, arranging season-long drink deals, and making sure the Foxtel subscription had been paid. There were social media countdowns and discussions of raffles.

This season feels different for me. I am no longer tethered to any hotel business. I am free of the shackles of long term employment, and enjoying extended leave and the opportunity to write some stuff down. More importantly, the chance to be a stay at home dad.

The personal rituals are so different. My (Collingwood) laptop bag has been replaced by school bags. My morning shower waits till all other teeth and hairs have been brushed. I had a 93 day Wordle streak. I plan dinners instead of rosters.

The footy rituals remain similar. The apps are dusted off and revived. The Pies chances are forefront in my mind, but I'm an eternal pessimist. Call it self-preservation, perhaps. Craig McRae has given us an incredible few years, but I'm not sure this will be one. The beauty of it is, though, you never know.

In Fly we trust.

I spend my afternoons putting together my Supercoach team, always starting with the rucks. I assemble my chosen few, then hate it and delete it. Change structure, try again, same result. I'm excited to get to support Nas in his first season as a starting pick. I toy with Bont and attempt to convince myself that Treloar and Parish aren't too withered to score enough points. The No Dickheads policy is restrictive.

I rejoin the same group of mates that have played fantasy footy together for years. It's a tough league, and each man holds claims to the throne. We aren't as committed as we were though, growing families and busy lives had put paid to hours of research and tinkering. These days, one hand is scrolling through potential trades, and the other is picking up the Lego that just left an imprint in the underside of arthritic feet..

Fortuitously, we have moved through these life milestones together, and the diminishing attention to our pretend teams has occurred simultaneously. That is its own kind of special. I'm glad we still do it.

The practice matches are on this weekend. I've always enjoyed them. But these days, the thought that the AFL once gave out a pre-season trophy is laughable. They aren't even called 'matches' anymore. They are simply match 'simulations'. It's less demoralising to lose a simulation I guess. A simulation can be reset.

We receive one simulation per team. Four quarters to analyse game plans. Critique positional changes. Question selections. We tell ourselves the result doesn't matter, it's the process. We love or hate the process.

At the end of the weekend, our teams have all completed simulating, and we can finalise our grand predictions for the season ahead. This guy will break out. This other guy is too old (Sam Lalor and Tex Walker come to mind).

All that being said, I still have a recurring argument with myself around this time every year. What does footy mean to me now? I'm older than every single player in the league. Why do these children still have a stranglehold on my emotions? Do they?

In my pre-season, I struggle with finding the time and space for another year as a football fan. Is this the year it breaks away from me?

All that we are left with are questions, and the wait. It's out of our hands now. Do we really still care?

The anatomy of a new season isn’t about flags or ladders. It’s about finding where it fits in your life now. 

The pub is gone. The rosters are gone. The rituals cling to an edge. 

My thumb still finds the red icon.